


Mastered

by foodaddict



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (Because I Can Only Be Okay With This in Brutal Medieval Settings), Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Forced Marriage, Implied (Previous) Miscarriage, Implied (Previous) Non-Con, Obsessive Kylo Ren, Possessive Kylo Ren, Rough Sex, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14558976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foodaddict/pseuds/foodaddict
Summary: When Rey is forced to marry Kylo Ren, the marauding king who has laid whole nations to waste, she is prepared for pain. What she is not prepared for is what happens when her husband comes barging into her room after a night of drinking.





	Mastered

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written with a pairing from another fandom (specifically _Game of Thrones_ ), adapted to _Star Wars_ and Reylo after I read this awesome fic by PoetHrotsvitha titled “Fortune’s Throne” and realized that medieval Reylo can work. If medieval (and I mean accurately medieval, set in England medieval) Reylo floats your boat, go check it out! 
> 
> Guys, please read the warnings in the tags! There are references to very dark themes here—non-consensual sex, physical abuse, forced marriage, murder, miscarriage—and I would hate for anyone to read this and come away upset. Kylo is NOT nice in this. This is NOT fluffy. **TRIGGER WARNING, TRIGGER WARNING, TRIGGER WARNING.** Please, please, please don’t read this if you can’t take any of the foregoing. 
> 
> I'm posting this unedited because it's late and I have work (and just got out of the hospital, haha), so apologies for any typos or formatting errors. Will get to them after I can do a re-read later this week. Hope you enjoy!

      It’s the slam of a nearby door that wakes Rey. She sits up in her darkened room, heart hammering and hands clutching wildly for her staff before she remembers where she is. _What_ she is. She is no longer the girl who sleeps in the cloistered cell of a convent with a quarterstaff at her side.

 

      She listens for another minute, hears the muffled sounds from the room next to her own and slowly lies back down.

 

      He’d been drinking when she’d gone to bed. Rey has not taken her supper with him in the great hall for some months, but Jessika dutifully reports what he does even when Rey does not ask. Her outspoken maid has taken issue with her husband’s sudden fondness for alcohol, but she is even less impressed with Rey’s colorless reply—“I see”—to her report. Rey should be insulted by the implication that it is her fault that her husband has been driven to drink, but if she is honest she rather enjoys the thought. Would that the bastard would drink a pint too many and take a tipsy tumble down the stairs.

 

      Rey stretches, taking a deep breath and trying to relax. The bed is too big, and even with her arms above her head and her toes pointed she cannot span it. She stares up at the canopy above her, willing herself to be calm.

 

      Emperor Kylo Ren does not drink, as a rule. It is an odd aspect of his character, considering his lack of restraint in many things. He refused the holy wine at his own coronation, she was told, and did not partake even at their wedding feast. (Considering what he did that night, it was likely a small mercy.) That he has decided to start drinking _now_ is indeed momentous, but Rey cannot bring herself to think about what it means. She knows about the council that had been called that afternoon by the Emperor’s most trusted nobles, knows from the whispers at court and the way everyone watches her that it was her fate they had discussed.

 

      She is resigned, if a little anxious still. But her life has always been one of anxiety—that low, humming, more persistent cousin of panic. Nearly two decades of merely surviving, of waiting for the inevitable axe to fall, has acclimated her to the feeling. The only matter that gives her real concern is how it will be carried out.

 

      This is why, when the door between their rooms opens, she does not pretend to be asleep. The tactic has spared her his attentions before, but she is willing to endure even _that_ if it means that she will know. Above all else, she fears what she does not know.

 

      His room is well-lit still. She sits up again, blinking as her eyes adjust to the flickering golden light. Her husband stands in the doorway, a towering shadow, blocking out half the light.

 

      “Come here.”

 

      His voice is husky, low with intent, and Rey shivers despite her resolve. Perhaps he can see her reluctance, because in a few moments he sees fit to add: “Unless you’d rather I came to you.”           

 

      It is enough to get her moving. She needs to be able to see him, to gauge for herself what has occurred. She foregoes the robe she might have worn over her nightdress—it would take too long to grope for it in the dark, and she is fooling herself if she expects to remain clothed long.

 

      He steps back to let her pass, and as he does she nearly freezes, struck by the cacophony of scents that wafts from him: wine and spirits and ale. It is not altogether unpleasant, but it brings back ugly memories about a time before the convent.

 

      “Did they drop you into a cask in the wine cellars?” Rey asks as she walks past him, her voice waspish to her own ears. She knows she may later regret her tone, but she has never been able to control her temper with him, whatever it might cost her.

 

      Strangely, Ren lets out a huff that sounds like laughter, but when Rey turns in astonishment his face is somber. He gestures to the set of chairs before the fire and she moves slowly towards her seat, her wary eyes still on his face.

 

      Despite his smell, her husband does not appear to be drunk. Disconcertingly, she finds that she even likes the effect that alcohol has on him. There is a healthy wash of color in his pale face and his bright, sharp eyes are more lambent than usual. There are touches of dishevelment about him—the misaligned black surcoat, the lack of a left glove—that make Rey’s fingers itch with the need to correct.

 

      It is maddening, this need to touch a husband whom she hates.

 

      He watches her just as avidly as she does him, and only when she is seated does he move forward. Rey notices for the first time that someone has set a platter of fruit, cheese, and bread on the table nearer to her husband’s chair. There are two goblets and a flagon of what she imagines is yet more wine for her husband’s consumption.

 

      “What happened?” Rey demands to know as Ren pours the crimson vintage into both goblets.

 

      “We’re celebrating,” Ren answers with no real joy in his voice. He hands her a goblet before collapsing into his chair with his own drink. He lifts his goblet to her in a toast. “To you, my wife.”

 

      Rey lifts the goblet to her mouth, lets the bittersweet flavor of the wine rush over her tongue and down her throat. Lowering her eyes as a sliver of dread skitters through her, she asks—more quietly this time—“What happened?”

 

      “Snoke is dead.”

 

      The clang of silver hitting the floor and the splash of cool liquid against her legs has Rey jumping. The hem of her white nightdress may stain, but it is difficult to heed that when her husband stares at her with abject amusement—a rare enough expression on his face that Rey gapes at him.

 

      “ _Wha—ho—why?”_ Rey gasps, not sure what she wants to know first.

 

      “There was an . . . incident . . . at today’s council meeting,” her husband replies idly, as if he were discussing the crop yield for the year or the likely day that traders would be arriving in the spring. “Snoke commanded me to take a course of action that I could not abide and forced my hand.”

 

      “You . . . ” Rey cannot believe her own ears. “You _killed_ him?”

 

      “Cleaved him in two,” Ren confirms succinctly. Some humor returns to his face through the quirk of his full lips. “Hux was beside himself.”

 

      Slowly, Rey sits down again. “How does the whole castle not know about this?” she asks faintly. She can imagine that the Emperor murdering his oldest and most trusted advisor would send ripples of shock throughout the castle within the hour of it happening.

 

      Ren shrugs. “We decided it was for the best to make it appear as though there was an accident. We will all be hearing of it tomorrow morning.”

 

      “An accident where your mentor ended up _split into two?”_ Rey points out acidly. “How did you ever get Hux to agree?”

 

      The look he gives her stops her short and reminds her who she is dealing with. His voice is soft, caressing. “I have my ways.”

 

      _You’re mad,_ she wants to say, as she’s said to him twice before. She stops only because her saying so never fails to delight him.

 

* * *

****

**_Before_ **

 

      _Rey has heard of Kylo Ren, even within the convent._

_The sisters do not like to discuss such news openly, but the women and merchants who come from the village to help and provide supplies recite the stories with glee, finding perverse delight in terrifying the novitiates._

_Rey hears about how he was fostered by the most cunning man in some distant, frozen realm; how he returns home with the intent of leading his country into war. How Ren kills his father when Lord Solo tries to stop him and forces his mother, Queen Leia, into exile. How he takes the throne and carries out his plans, how nation after nation falls or bows. How easily Jakku capitulates when his armies reach their borders._

_She imagines him a monster and hates him._

_And that is before the Reverend Mother tells her that Lord Hux, the commander of Ren’s armies, has come to bring her to the Emperor. Hux sneers down his nose at her as he manhandles her into a carriage. The sisters weep for her, which spares Rey from weeping for herself. She knows why the Emperor wants to see her—has worried over it ever since she heard of Zuvio’s capitulation to the Empire’s demand for surrender._

_The journey to where Ren is waiting takes three days and Rey’s only company inside the stuffy carriage is an increasingly grumpy, sweaty Hux. He complains about the heat and the sand like it is her fault, mutters under his breath about how only crazed old mystics would leave their descendants to grow up as desert rats. Rey does not see fit to inform him as to what Obi Wan Kenobi thought when he placed her in the sisters’ care. The truth is, Rey can only guess. She had known her grandfather for so short a time before he was called away to fight the Old Empire._

_Before he helped bring it down._

_Rey knows this is why the new Emperor has come. She is merely “Rey” now, bearing her grandfather’s name only in her heart, but somehow they must have found out about her. Perhaps reasonable men might have left her alone, might have seen that a slip of a girl in a poor convent in the Western Reaches of the Empire would never pose a real threat._

_But if she knows anything about the Empire, it is that it was not built by reasonable men._

_So she sits quietly throughout Hux’s tirades, occupying herself with the barren landscape until they arrive at Niima Castle and Rey is hauled out of the carriage to face her doom._

* * *

 

      “Are you . . . ” Rey hesitates over the next words. She has never said them to him before and she does not know why they dance on her tongue now, demanding to be said. He lifts his brows and she pushes them out. “Are you all right?”

 

      It chills her when he smiles. “Of course. I’ve never felt freer in my life.”

 

      She can almost understand. After all, she knows what it is like to live life subject to the whims of another. Unlike her, however, Ren has always had the power to kill his master. Rey had tried only once before, and all it had wrought her was more savage torment.

 

      It is a small comfort that her attempt at least left a mark. Even in the limited light, the scar on Ren’s face stands out like a brand.

 

      “And will you tell me what spurred on this act of independence?” she prompts quietly, though she already knows. It’s in the way he looks at her, in the way his eyes rove over her face and body.

 

      “He ordered me to be rid of you.”

 

* * *

 

**_Before_ **

****

_Niima the III, the Huttese Queen, does not appreciate the interruption of her dinner. She reprimands Lord Hux for bringing a scavenging desert rat into her private quarters—never mind that Rey has not been a scavenger for over a decade. She may be dressed in the plain grey garb of all novitiates, but she is as clean as can be under the circumstances. As Rey meets the corpulent woman’s bug-eyed gaze, she knows without a doubt who betrayed her to the Empire, and she feels a flash of pure, undiluted hate, as futile as it is._

_For all Niima’s indignation, Hux does not answer to her, and so he simply pushes Rey forward so that she stumbles to the feet of Niima’s guest, who has risen from his seat._

_“Leave us.”_

_The voice is soft, but deep. It makes Rey tremble in a way that makes her hope it is fear. She cannot think what else it might be. Either way, she does not trust herself to stand yet. She pushes onto her knees, but no further, and keeps her eyes down as she listens to those around them obey. Soon there is only the crackle of the fire._

_“Rise, Lady Kenobi.”_

_It is on the tip of her tongue to deny her identity. She has not answered to that name in years. But latent pride and dignity make her square her shoulders and get to her feet. She quakes inside as she absorbs how physically outmatched she is by him. Even without looking up she can see that she barely comes up to his chest and that his broad, powerful frame would easily crush her own. He is dressed all in black, which Rey grimly considers appropriate. He is, after all, to be her death._

_He does not speak for a long time. Then he reaches out to lift her chin, the touch of his thumb and forefinger light. Rey keeps her eyes stubbornly lowered, though she does not know what she fears in looking at his face, until her lashes all but meet._

_Then her eyes fly open when his gloved hand closes around her throat._

_Later, she will think about why she froze under the threat to her life, why she did not scrabble to break free of his hold. It is tight, but not choking, but what makes her breathless is how small and thin and breakable her neck feels, enclosed in his large, brawny grip._

_Later, she will admit to herself that she freezes because she is finally looking at his face, and it is not at all what she expects._

_The Emperor is a young man with pale skin and dark eyes that speak to her with a gentleness that she does not understand. His features are irregular, but she cannot deny that he is handsome—a strange, compelling blend of soft, full lips and hard bones. Her eyes follow the constellation of beauty marks on his face and she wonders at how she can even admit that she finds him beautiful._

_And she hates him all the more for it._

_“Yes,” he whispers thoughtfully, releasing her from his hold._

_“W-what?” Rey chokes, bewildered but half-afraid that she may have said something out loud._

_He turns away from her, stalking to the dining table. He waves to the chair on his right, where Niima had been seated. “Join me, Lady Kenobi.”_

_Rey stares at him. She had girded herself for being clapped in irons and cast into a cell to await execution. Considering his reputation, she had even prepared for the Emperor to kill her on the spot. But she must admit that she never imagined being asked to join him at dinner._

_When he sees that she has yet to move, he turns back to her. “Lady Rey,” he says softly. Rey can’t help but liken it to the gentle swing of a lure. Especially when he adds—almost tenderly—“Please.”_

_Rey finally complies, but she cannot help but look wildly around the room for some sort of weapon. There are plenty at the table itself, of course—but those knives are within his reach, as well. She does not put him beyond skewering her over his dinner, despite how he has behaved so far._

_“How did you know my name?” she asks, pushing aside Niima’s utensils. She has not eaten since that morning, but she is not about to eat from the old toad’s plate._

_“I know everything worth knowing about you,” he answers calmly. There is the barest seasoning of condescension over his tone. He pushes a platter of bread rolls towards her. “How you were conceived in an illicit affair, disowned by your father, and later abandoned by your mother. How your grandfather came looking for you when all of his legitimate heirs were dead—”_

_“You’re wrong,” she interrupts hotly, provoked by his narration and his tone. She ignores the bread even though its scent wafts up to her and her stomach grumbles. “He came looking for me the moment he found out I existed.”_

_Kylo Ren raises his brows. “Which was after all of his legitimate heirs were dead,” he repeats. He inches the platter closer to her and his lips curve when she continues to ignore it. “And now I know that you’re stubborn and that you have a temper. Perhaps they’re right.”_

_“Who are right?” Rey asks, flushing at her loss of control. She had been managing so well until she’d come face to face with him. She had promised herself that she would give them no more satisfaction than they would get from disposing of her._

_“Everyone who says that I should kill you,” Ren replies easily._

_Rey swallows, feeling the hectic color that must be on her face drain away. She stares hard at him. “Is that what you plan to do?”_

_She knows it—has known it for all her life, it almost seems—but even so, she wants to hear him say it. She wants to hear it so that she knows has nothing further to dread._

_The curve of his mouth deepens into the barest of smiles._

_“No.”_

_“Then what?”_

_* * *_

      She had called him mad when he’d told her, and he’d laughed outright. But it didn’t matter what she thought, because it came to pass exactly as he had decided it would. The only joy Rey knew from that time was the look on Hux’s face when Ren had told him to prepare for a marriage.

Rey has no doubt where Hux stands on the matter of her status as Ren’s Empress.

 

      “Was not Snoke’s a common sentiment?” she points out evenly. “Was that not why the council was called?”

 

      Her husband’s shrug is negligent. “And what of it? Must I bow to popular demand now?”

 

      _You ought to_ , she thinks. Rey has lived longed enough, learned enough from those who came before her to understand that power is a wheel. No one stays at the top forever. A wise ruler should know which battles are worth spending his strength on.

 

      But even as her mind frets, a part of her thrills. It is a part of herself that she no longer understands, that terrifies her because she seems to have so little control over it.

 

      Because of that terror, she forces herself to speak.

 

      “Perhaps—” Rey pauses when her throat tightens over the next words. Swallowing thickly, she tries again. “Perhaps you should heed their advice.”

 

      Ren stares at her, and while his face is impassive she can feel something dark loom over him. It’s the same thing she feels when a storm is coming even though the skies are still clear. She would run for cover, if she knew where to find it. But since she does not know, she forges ahead blindly, but as bravely as she can.

 

      “Perhaps there is something about me that is malformed,” she continues, her words stumbling gracelessly after one another in her haste to say them. She must say them all before her courage fails her. “I was a sickly, starved child before my grandfather found me. The sisters said that it’s likely why my courses are irregular.” She takes a deep breath as the grief she has borne for the last two months—the second burden she has taken on that year—threatens to choke her. She forces the rest out. “I may not be able to have children.”

 

      The silence is so thick and suffocating that Rey feels crushed beneath it. She wants to break it, to cast it off by saying _something_ , but she is ensnared by the emotions that play across Ren’s face—too quick and fleeting for her to catch and understand.

 

      “I did not marry you for children,” he says at length.

 

      Rey’s breath catches and she can no longer meet his eyes. She can feel the heat climb up into her cheeks as the tingling low in her belly moves down to her knees. She wiggles her toes, knots her fingers together as she grapples with the current that seems to be rippling beneath her skin.

 

      “Of course you did,” she tells him, forcing herself to look at him. Her words still feel like they are being choked out of her, but she says them. “You wanted a union of the old bloodlines. Now we know that I . . . ” she wavers as her vision blurs from the prickling in her eyes, “ . . . I will not be able to give you that.”

 

      Ren rises abruptly, the edgy set of his shoulders and the tilt of his mouth promising violence. Even as Rey holds her breath against the inevitable explosion, he paces behind his chair.

 

      “We’ve been married for a year. You can’t know that in a year.”

 

      Something about his dispassionate tone pushes her not to heed the warnings that belie his calm. The tears run freely down her cheeks as her pain and fear bubble up from the place deep inside herself that she has learned not to look at. “I’ve lost two children in the space of one year,” she whispers in disbelief, her hands balling into fists as she presses them over her belly, over the empty place where her two babes once slept. “What other proof do you need?”

 

      His eyes are cold. “We can always try again. In fact, we can try right now.”

 

      Rey jumps to her feet, fury roaring through her veins at his cruelty. Her hand latches onto the item nearest to it—the flagon of wine—and she pitches it viciously at his head.

 

      _“You evil, disgusting bastard!”_ she screams, a haze of red settling over her when he ducks and deprives her of the satisfaction of hurting him. “ _As if I would ever let you touch me again, you sick, callous—”_

 

      Ren pounces, teeth bared, and Rey no longer knows what she is saying as he catches her up against him and she beats her rage against the solid wall of his chest. She barely feels the pain as it rattles up her arms—she knows only the need to hurt, to vent her hate.

 

      When he pins her against the wall next to the hearth, his hand over her throat, Rey is ready for him to kill her. She would rather he did, if only to end her suffering. His eyes are burning, black as sin, as he leans in close.

 

      “You have no choice in this matter,” he says fiercely, his hand tightening even as her nails dig bloody crescents into his fingers. “No say. What matters is what _I_ want, what _I_ need. And I don’t need children.”

 

      Rey closes her eyes, lets the last of her tears fall. Then her eyes fly back open when her husband’s mouth comes down over hers.

 

      Even as her vision darkens, the heat of his mouth, his taste, the strange softness of his lips make something knot painfully in her belly and heat bloom between her legs. Her hands slip away from his, fist in his shirt.

 

      When he lifts his lips a moment later, she hates herself for the way she almost whines.

 

      “You won’t be parted from me so easily,” he snarls, and Rey must be losing her mind from the lack of air because something very much like joy blooms inside her at his words. “You will always be mine. _This_ —” her dress rips away cleanly from her front—“will always be _mine._ ”

 

      And then she’s gasping for air because he’s finally lifted his hand from her throat in order to pull her up against him. Rey is too lightheaded to fight. When he pins her to the wall, this time with his weight, she leans heavily against it, only barely hearing his muttered oaths as he struggles with his own clothing.

 

      It’s the feel of his cock pushing inside her that manages to ground her.

 

      Rey grits her teeth as much against the pain as against the rush of dizzying pleasure. It isn’t just the feel of him inside her—that hard, unyielding, all-consuming invasion—it’s the way his grip on her waist, in her hair, becomes brutal, the way his teeth mark her shoulder and he trembles violently against her.

 

      She hates herself as much as she does him when the pain ebbs and she is unable to contend with what is left.

 

      She wraps her legs around his hips as he cages her against the wall, the icy stone a stark counterpoint to the furnace of her husband’s hulking body. Her hands are on his chest, between them, trying to give her enough space to breathe so he doesn’t crush her. When he begins to move, she bites her lip until it bleeds but is still unable to suppress the sharp keening as his driving thrusts spear something inside her that make her lose control.

 

      “Rey,” he chants fiercely against her ear, and she still wonders at how _he_ can sound like the desperate supplicant every time he does this when it is he who takes and takes and takes. “ _Rey.”_

 

      She turns her face to him at last, to tell him him stop, because the way he says her name makes it worse, makes her back arch in savage delight. But he takes it as his chance to kiss her again, to taste the blood on her lip and make her whimper as his tongue courts her own. She clutches him tight, her arms winding around his neck, her sensitive breasts crushed against the wall of his chest. As her pleasure roars over her, the last clear thought in her head is one of confusion.

 

      How had she ever come to love _this?_

 

* * *

 

 

      “Put out the lights,” Rey whispers, laying a hand on her husband’s shoulder as he makes to join her on the bed. She is sated and enervated, but not far gone enough to not feel modesty.

 

      The Emperor smirks, trailing a broad hand down over her chest, down to her slick, swollen core. She knows that she is blushing, fights to be still under his observation even as her blood stirs again and she feels the heat climbing up her neck and blossoming on her cheeks.

 

      “Will you never tire of doing this?” she asks, her breath hitching as his hand pushes against the back of her knee and lifts her thigh upwards and open.

 

      He nips the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. “I will never tire of learning you.”

 

      Perhaps it is the odd choice of words, the promise beneath them, or the steadiness in his eyes, but she makes no further protest as he continues to touch her, his sloe-eyed gaze drinking her in. 

 

      When he had done this on their wedding night, after he had left her broken and bleeding that first time, he had done it to gloat, to revel in his victory over her, to see the pain and misery he had wrought. His eyes had been wild then, burning with unholy delight in his marred face.

 

      Rey reaches out on impulse, traces the scar that she gave him then. She had moved on pure instinct—boiling with fury and hatred when he’d laughed at her unwillingness to come to his bed. He had been shocked by her reckless attack, but that night she had learned first-hand what many of his enemies had learned in battle against him.

 

      Except she had had the misfortune of having to survive.

 

      Though Rey must admit to herself—in the safe quarters of her heart and mind—that it is difficult to keep seeing it as a misfortune when her husband is kissing her. There is no real grace to it, no consideration—but she tastes the hunger on his tongue, revels in the half-crazed desperation he shows in the way he holds her close.

 

      Perhaps she can bear him because she can sense these things now. Perhaps she has always sensed them, but had not known enough to give them a name.

 

      It is twisted and sinful, but knowing that he would kill anyone— _anyone_ —for her has helped her see.

 

      It is there, in the way he pushes eagerly against her hands, jolted by her touch. When she slides her hand from his face to cup his nape, he shudders, his heart beating so fiercely against his chest that Rey almost thinks it is her own. When she says his name he groans, heedless of how needy and greedy he sounds.

 

      He had spoken truly, before. He had not married her for children, for some vague, superstitious whim about uniting their bloodlines. There had been no wisdom in his decisions when it came to her.

 

      There had been _this._

 

      Intoxicated by the dark, savage thrill that this recent enlightenment sends racing through her, Rey gives herself up to her husband’s devotions, losing herself as surely as she knows he has lost himself to her.

 

      Later, when the fire is banked and the last of the candles has sputtered out, Rey is almost asleep but for a few persistently whirring thoughts. Kylo is behind her, around her, inside her, but like the one in the hearth his fire is momentarily spent.

 

      Sometimes, in moments like this, when sleep evades them despite their exertions, they talk. Not for long, and rarely civilly, but it is from such conversations that Rey knows that her husband finds fault with her table manners yet takes no issue with her training with a quarterstaff.

 

      Though she has not trained in months, not since one of the physicians pointed out that it may have been responsible for . . .

 

      Rey squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself to sleep, willing her mind to let go of those poisonous threads of thought.

 

      Then Kylo’s hand skims over her belly and frissons of pain and fear lance through her as she is unable to stop herself from remembering what she has lost—what she might lose yet again if his seed takes root inside her. Her chest hitches with a sob.

 

      “Hush.”

 

      Her husband’s voice is in her ear, his hand coming up to her face. His body curls tightly around her and he tastes her tears until they stop coming. Rey’s last thought, before the darkness finally comes, is that even her grief is his.

 

            There is some justice in that, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated! (Unless it's a complaint about how dark this is, in which case . . . I don't know what to tell you after all the tags and the warnings.) Much love!


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